Your friend, Sherlock Holmes
by Lucyinthesky1996
Summary: "When we first met, I annoyed the hell out of you. I'd shoot holes in the wall. I went for days and nights without eating or sleeping. I spent your money on endless packets of nicotine patches. But you loved me for that. Because it never got boring."


When we first met, I annoyed the hell out of you.

I'd be awake at three in the morning, scratching at my violin though you were in no mood to hear it. I went running off on my own and always nearly got myself killed whenever we were on a case, only for you to come and save my life repeatedly. I'd shoot holes in the wall. I went for days and nights without eating or sleeping. I spent your money on endless packets of nicotine patches. But you loved me for that. Because it never got boring.

After a while, formality's disappeared. It was no longer "Mr Holmes" or "Dr. Watson." You called me your friend, and despite all the arguments, the falling out, I became your best friend. Whenever I was annoying or stubborn you'd just shake your head at me, because you were used to this. Because that was just typical Sherlock Holmes. There would always be a time, after a hard days work, when we'd sit together – just us- and fall asleep in the warm room we called our home. _Our_ home. Because we wanted to.

I remember those nights of watching you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and if ever you awoke from a nightmare, I'd be there holding your hand until you fell into sleep once more. Sometimes, when there were no new cases and you weren't working, we went for long walks. Just the two of us. And we'd talk, about criminals or siblings or just normal things like relationships. Which was something I rarely did with anyone until I met you. You always stood up for me; when Sally was being a bitch or Anderson was nagging, you'd always put a word in for me and send them running. Because it bothered you. What other people thought about me. I don't know why, but it did.

And for a long time it was just the two of us.

Until gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings. And then you fell in love. She was never a keeper. None of them were. But I was happy, because you were happy. And I grinned and bore it when she slobbered all over you, when she turned her nose up at me. I know the real reason you left her. You left her because it was either her or me. And you chose me. And you never told me why.

And then came fame. And the press. And the deerstalker hat.

And then came the time when it was all too good to be true.

You were not like me. Eventually, you had enough.

Eventually, you go bored.

Perhaps that is my fault. After a while, career got in the way. I pushed you aside, so hell bent on catching Moriarty that I blocked out everything else. I'm like that. You know I'm like that. But you were sick of it. And I don't blame you.

I know you still remember those words.

_"I don't have friends"_

After all we'd been through, I turned around and said _that_.

And you took it, like you always do.

In those months, we grew apart. What fell between us was a long and aching silence. Communication was rare, mostly only done through text. If you ever went shopping, you'd just go without telling me, and when you returned you kept yourself scarce. We went back to living in our separate worlds. I banished myself to the bedroom, searching for more cases to distract myself from the growing tension. You sat alone in the living room, feeling the limp return to your leg. You showed no anger or resentment towards me whenever our paths crossed, but if our eyes ever accidentally met I could tell that the words spoken in Baskerville had hurt you down to the soul. After a while, you started going out. You met people, met a girl. And it pained me to see that the closer you got with her, the further we drifted apart.

But like I said, it didn't last. It never does. Because nearly all the time, you give up and slope back to me.

I didn't deserve you John. And I still don't.

There had been a time, when others asked you if you knew Sherlock Holmes, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few months, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your Sherlock" to just "Sherlock," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf. Then you were given a new career opportunity in another city, a hospital which paid more than the one here. You'd have moved to a one bedroomed apartment. No violin playing at 3am. No shooting walls. Just normal peace and quiet. Part of me thinks you should have taken the golden oppurtunity to get away from me. But you didn't. You turned it down. Mycroft is right. You're very loyal, very quickly. And that's what I love about you.

I wish I didn't have to do what I did. But it's less painful than to see you die at my expense. I do not want to relive the fall. It's too painful.

Here's me being my selfish old character again.

The pain I felt is probably nothing compared to the pain you feel everyday. You think I couldn't hear you, when the paramedics tried to pry your fingers loose from my hand as you screamed;

_"Please, let me through, he's my friend!"_

It's ironic. That you'd still call me friend. After everything I said and did to you.

You didn't want to look at my body. You just nodded, avoided everyone's eyes and politely took my coat and scarf with you. I know that you still wear them John, that you lie curled up in your bed with nothing but them on. By day they are your greatest enemy, thrown to the back of your darkened wardrobe, by night they are my own arms wrapped around you, in false hope that you may open your eyes and I'll be waiting at the door. And my grave John, you are always at my grave. You sit there, and talk about your dreams and I listen John, I know you can't see me but I do hear you. And when you leave, it pains me to see that your limp has returned and you can no longer walk in a straight line. And I know that it's me that has inflicted all this on you John, everything is my doing.

And as for me? I'm forced to hide myself in the shadows and try to clean my blackened name. I have a deadline to meet, and so do you. You must move on John. You must concentrate on yourself for once. You're no longer following in my footsteps. You're no longer my other half. You're John Watson. You've always been John Watson. And now you have to leave me in the past and focus on your own life.

But I will never stop thinking of you. I will never stop worrying for you, and I will never forget what lessons you have taught me about friendship, loyalty, love, responsibility, and about respect for all life. Before I knew you John…I didn't believe in heroes. But I know that if they do exist, then you would be one.

One day we will meet again John. One day we will reunite. But for now, try to remember me. Not as Sherlock Holmes. Or a consulting detective.

But as your friend.

And may everyone in your life continue to show you the loyalty you showed me.


End file.
